“Evan is always going to Evan,” she interrupts. “You can’t live your life around his threats. We have the IA report, remember? His connection to the judge? That’s your leverage.”
There are no easy answers here, no clear path forward that doesn’t involve more conflict, more stress, more potential pain for Tyson and Blythe.
Another knock, this one more hesitant. “Mom?” Tyson’s voice, concerned. “Are you okay? Blythe’s asking for you.”
The sound of my son’s worry brings me back to myself. I’ve spent the last two years trying to protect my children from adult problems, from the ugliness of custody battles and divorce. I won’t let Evan’s threats ruin this day for them.
“Coming, buddy,” I call, moving to the door. I pause, meeting Elliot’s eyes. “I hate that he still has this power over me.”
“Then stop giving it to him,” she says simply.
When I emerge, Tyson’s worried face makes my heart ache. “You were gone a long time,” he says quietly. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I lie, smoothing his hair. “Just some work stuff I needed to handle.”
He studies me, clearly not believing the excuse but letting it go. “Blythe’s telling everyone you’re going to marry Dex because we’re wearing matching jerseys.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Of course she is.”
Back in the box, Blythe is indeed holding court, explaining to Kimmy’s daughter with great authority that “JERSEYS ARE BASICALLY LIKE WEDDING RINGS BUT FOR HOCKEY PEOPLE.”
“Sorry about that,” I tell Kimmy, sliding back into my seat. “Had to take care of something.”
“No problem at all,” she says warmly. “Everything okay?”
“Getting there,” I say, which feels more honest than a simple yes or no.
The game resumes, and I make a concerted effort to be present, to enjoy the moment despite the gnawing anxiety about what tomorrow might bring. On the ice, Dex is playing beautifully, his focus absolute despite not knowing the drama unfolding off-ice.
As the second period ends, I get a text from him.
How’s the view from the box? Kids having fun?
I debate whether to tell him about Evan’s texts, about the social media post. Part of me wants to shield him from my mess, to let him focus on his game. But another part remembers his words:we’re in this together now.
The kids are loving it. But we have a problem. Team posted a photo of us at the glass. Evan’s threatening custody modification.
What do you need me to do? I can talk to PR right now.
Already handled. Post being removed. But Evan has screenshots.
I’m coming up there. Right now.
NO. Finish the game. We’ll deal with this later.
Are you sure? I’ll walk off the ice right now if you need me to.
The offer—so immediate, so sincere—makes my throat tight with emotion. But I can’t let him do that.
Absolutely not. The kids would be devastated if you missed the third period. We’re fine. Win the game, then we’ll figure this out.
OK. But I’m coming straight to the box after. No distractions. Straight to you guys.
Deal.
I put my phone away, feeling oddly steadier. Not because the problem is solved—it definitely isn’t—but because I’m not facing it alone.
“Everything okay with lover boy?” Elliot asks, sliding back into the seat beside me.
